


Watercolours

by northerntrash



Series: Greyhame and Stein [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwalin Is A Softie, M/M, Ori is an artist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:05:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin had no idea why there were flowers tucked behind his ears, but if Kili didn't stop laughing he might have to throw him out a window.</p><p>In which Ori is an artist, Balin is trying to calm things down, and Dwalin doesn't know what the fuck is going on. And Gandalf is still making trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watercolours

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! *waves shyly. For those of you who don't know, this is a companion piece to my other fic, 'Candid'. You probably don't have to read that for this to make sense, but it might clear a couple of things up. :)

Dwalin was confused.

If you were to ask Thorin, or possibly Balin if he was in a snarky mood, they would tell you that this was not a rare occurrence. Dwalin, Frerin might go one step further to comment, was not the sharpest pencil in the box, and it wouldn’t be the first time that something had completely thrown him. They would tell you that when it came to the finer points of conversation or etiquette, Dwalin was a lost cause. Subtlety would have to be in the form of a two-by-four to the head if you wanted him to get it (these were perhaps exaggerations, but what is family good for if not casually insulting you?).

But in this case, he really didn’t think it was his fault.

He was also rather angry.

He looked to his left. Thorin had that kind of stony, blank expression that he only wore when he was struggling to know what to feel or to say. Next to him, Bilbo’s eyebrows were so high they were nearly hidden by the flop of his curls (he was growing them out, apparently, and it was rather disgustingly cute how fascinated Thorin seemed by them). Behind them was Dis, whose hand was pressed to her mouth.

He looked to his right. Balin’s mouth was slightly open, and Frerin was grinning fit to burst (although that in itself was not so rare a sight). Fili had a hand clenched tightly around Kili’s arm, as if to restrain his younger brother, and the two of them looked in shock.

Not just him, then.

A hand patted him on the shoulder, and he half-turned to see the smiling face of their host for the evening.

It was _always_ bloody Gandalf.

“Enjoying the exhibition?” The old man’s tone was innocent but he was twinkling in that way that always made Bilbo scowl and mutter under his breath – something about meddling, and being confusticated. Dwalin suddenly knew how he felt. There was something deeply suspicious about it that he had never really registered until now. No man should look this _chipper._  

“What the hell is this?”

Gandalf spread his arms wide, still smiling disarmingly.

“It’s an exhibition, my friend! Of a well-deserving and recently discovered young artist. I came across him when I was pottering through the Royal Art School’s student gallery. I must say, I am very glad the Greyhame managed to snatch him up before anyone else found him. Do you know, I am developing a bit of a name for myself for discovering unknown talent? Who would have thought! It all started off with Bilbo, didn’t it, dear boy?”

He patted his old friend on the head, which gained him dirty looks from both the man in question and Thorin, who moved half a step closer to him in silent support, as if he were worried Gandalf might try and sweep the younger man off and away. Had Dwalin not been rather distracted, he would probably have snorted at them.

Gandalf just twinkled some more, and wandered off.

“Well,” said Frerin, after a long pause. “Isn’t this… something?”

Dwalin was beginning to understand how Thorin had felt all those months ago, dragged in here by Fili and Kili only to be confronted with a six-foot photograph of himself. He was deeply regretting how many hours he had teased Thorin, all of the magazine articles that he and Dis had read aloud on the ‘mystery man’ of Bilbo’s exhibition. The teasing had only grown worse when Thorin had ended up on the billboard: it had been _months_ before they managed to get a day without poking fun at him.

All of that was rushing back into his head now, and from the rather smug look that was starting to creep across Thorin’s face, he was recalling it, too.

And the photograph, well. They had thought that was hilarious at the time, hadn’t they? But at least it was just that, a photograph, done rather tastefully in black and white. Admittedly the modelling shoots were a little more amusing, but all they depicted was Thorin in a suit, sitting casually around, draped elegantly across tables and park benches.

He hadn’t looked all that different from normal, admittedly, except perhaps a bit less grumpy – though, Kili had been quick to point out – he wasn’t properly smiling, so at least he didn’t look too different than usual (Bilbo had choked on his tea laughing at that). Even Dwalin was willing to admit that his cousin looked handsome enough, as if he actually belonged in glossy, high-contrast black and white.

This… this was so much worse.

Dwalin stared at the painting.

Balin patted his shoulder consolingly.

“At least it isn’t as _big_ as the photograph, lad.”

Someone started laughing, trying to smother it, and Dwalin didn’t even bother trying to work out who it was, because it could very easily have been any of them. He could barely even blame them. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered holding his mirth in.

The square canvas was about four foot tall and wide, and even to his untrained eye, he had to admit that the brushwork and composition, the colours and the subject had all been rendered with an impressive skill. The artist, whoever he was, really did have talent.

The problem was the image itself.

Because the subject was Dwalin.

And not Dwalin at a table in a coffee shop. Not Dwalin walking down the street. Not Dwalin behind his desk, or on site, or drinking a beer at Bard’s. None of the places that someone might have reasonably _seen_ him.

It was Dwalin in a field of flowers.

It didn’t matter that the theme of the exhibition was based around the juxtaposition of overtly masculine and feminine stereotypes (according to Gandalf’s speech, anyway, damned if Dwalin knew what the hell the point of all this art was); it didn’t matter that since the flowers were the traditionally feminine, he had been cast in the role of explicitly masculine, something which he would normally have been quite happy about.

It didn’t make a difference that the other paintings showed builders and army officers and body builders cavorting around in underwear or cooking or whatever.

There was a painting.

In existence.

Of Dwalin.

Wearing a flower crown.

It was Kili that broke the silence.

“I don’t know, Dwalin… I kind of think you look _nice_ in lilacs.”

It was the final straw, and it set them all off. Even Thorin was laughing, his arm around Bilbo, face buried in his hair. Fili and Frerin were clutching at each other, Dis had buried her face in Balin’s shoulder, and Kili was staring at him with those wide, puppy-dog eyes that got him out of _everything._

But not this time, this time Kili had gone too far…

The eyes widened, just a little bit.

Oh, for fucks sake.

Fucking Kili and the fucking puppy eyes. He made a noise that was definitely not a growl and turned back, out of horrid fascination, to the painting in the hopes that maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as he thought it was.

He had a rose tucked behind one ear. 

From the other side of the gallery, a very embarrassed young artist watched Dwalin storm out, followed by the muffled laughs of his friends. That really hadn’t been his intention _at all._ He’d never thought that any of his real-life models would end up seeing his exhibition, except for Dori of course.

Gandalf smiled beatifically at him, and patted his shoulder.

“I think it’s all going very well, don’t you?”

Not for the first time in the last few weeks Ori found himself wondering what he had gotten himself into.

 

\--

 

It had started with Dori. Most things in Ori’s life started with Dori, in fairness, but this time his older brother had had no hand in it himself.

One thing he had begun to notice more and more the older he got was how many people were _confused_ by his brother. He remembered the first time Dori had come to visit him at university, and his friend’s gaping faces at the sight of his six-foot-two-and-possibly-just-as-broad brother, who admittedly did not look anything like the image that a description of an overprotective mother-hen who made lavender and lemon cupcakes might conjure up.

But it was just _Dori._

He ran his coffee shop with a strict organisation that bordered, Nori was often heard to remark, on the militant, which really shouldn’t have been all that surprising considering that Dori had been an officer in the Armed Forces for nearly a decade. All that had been years ago, now: Ori had only been a few months old when Dori had been honourably discharged. He still had something of a limp in particularly cold weather.

And it confused people: they never expected that Dori owned a coffee shop, rather assuming that he ran a security firm, or taught P.E. in school, or was perhaps a well-turned-out builder (though of course the former military career was never met with surprised expressions).

It seemed people seemed willing to offer prejudice in both directions: Ori couldn’t even count the number of intolerant comments he’d heard Dori patiently ignore, questioning his masculinity and sexuality as he iced the elaborate cakes they sold with a delicate finesse, or embroidered delicate patterns onto cashmere gloves. Likewise, many people had raised concerns about Dori’s suitability to raise a young boy after he’d adopted Ori, following their mother’s death when Ori was only twelve years old, which was patently ridiculous.

For Christ’s sake, he was possibly the kindest, most concerned surrogate parent anyone could have asked for.

Even if it was a little overbearing to have your brother _still_ wrap you in blankets when you were twenty six years old.

Dori fussed over his brothers, ran his shop with the slick precision of a well-oiled machine, and knitted him and Nori scarves in the winter. He made _petite madeleines_ when Ori was stressed, and angel-food cake when Nori was tired, and there were always vases of fresh flowers strewn around their home – and it was always, adamantly still _their_ home, even if Nori had his own place and Ori spend several nights a week at his studio apartment; both the two younger brothers wandered in and out of the place as if they were still teenagers.

Dori was also a lacework of scars, smoked cigars, and was almost _unfathomably_ strong for a gentleman of fifty four years. He’d had never stopped keeping himself in shape, even all these years after he’d left the forces, and as Nori would put it, was still built like a brick shithouse.

The idea that any of that was problematic was confusing to Ori. That was just who Dori _was._

It had been these contrasts that Ori had played with when he started on the project. The first portrait of his brother had just been an experiment, really.

Everything about Dori’s surface appearance seemed to scream exaggerated testosterone, and none of that was hidden in the painting. It was a scene that Ori had seen nearly every morning of his life, and he had painted it entirely from memory, without telling Dori what he was doing. His brother was in the gym shorts he worked out in and nothing else: his shirt was always thrown to one side in their home gym half way through his gruelling work out, and Dori never bothered to pull it on before he made his way back to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast (always served warm and with fruit, with hand-squeezed orange juice, when he knew his brothers were there).

It had been a challenge to replicate every line of his brother’s body, each strong and defined muscle, but he had succeeded in the end. Dori’s back was a masterpiece in itself, he had often thought absently, strong and scarred with thin, silver trails from a nail bomb in Northern Ireland, scars that curved around the right side of his chest, as well. It was his back that was the main focus of the painting: the viewer looked at him from behind, his feet facing forwards but his upper torso twisting slightly to the side as he reached for his jar of tea leaves, his face in profile.

It left the viewer with no doubt about the Dori’s fitness and physique, and the kind of life he had led. On his shoulder blade was the tattoo of his former regiment, on his hip a geographical coordinate he had never offered an explanation for and which Ori had always shied away from inquiring about. Ori had been honest, in the painting: the broad scar that curved almost around the whole of Dori’s left leg was picked out in delicate detail. It had taken him _weeks_ to work out what the exact colour of it was, but it was important to him to get it right. It had been that injury, attained in the Falklands, which had led to Dori’s honourable discharge at the age of thirty. It was _important._

The idea he had wanted to challenge was that Dori could not be both this, and the mother hen that he was: there was no reason why a man could not be both a war hero and a substitute mother for his orphaned brothers.

So there Dori was, painted in all his muscular glory, stood in their country-style kitchen, the wooden cupboards painted a pale blue and decorated around the edges with flowers picked out in shades of grey – entirely Dori’s idea. The tin in which he kept his tea leaves was decorated in violets, and had been a gift from Ori that he had found in an old antique fair. The soft morning sunlight made his shorn, silver glow, giving him a gentle halo.

Innocuously on the counter was Dori’s favourite tea-cup and saucer, wafer thin cream porcelain with a pretty floral pattern picked out in purple and pink.

His professors had _loved_ it.

And, more importantly, so had Dori. When Ori had shown it to him, once it was finally finished, he had stared at it for a long while, silently, before turning to his little brother.

“Is this really how you see me?”

Ori had nodded, a little concerned, but then Dori’s face had broken into an overwhelmed, emotional smile, and it looked for a moment as if he were about to cry.

“It’s _beautiful._ ”

Ori had just shrugged as Dori had hugged him: his brother _was_ beautiful, scars and intimidating personality and floral tea sets and _all_.

He’d expanded the idea. It had been hard at first, because he didn’t really have anyone else from his own life he could use in the same way, people whose appearance, personality and history jarred so spectacularly between different expectations. So he’d started looking at the ‘classic’ masculine and feminine imagery: in pop culture, Renaissance art, ancient sculpture, anywhere he could think of.

And he’d begun to play.

Sensual close ups of mouths, and eyes, bare legs and the curve of hips; warm arms holding infants, all in pastel shades and soft watercolours: but depicting not women, but men. His female figures instead were depicted in the darker, bolder shades normally reserved for their male counterparts, standing in powerful poses that had not been overly sexualised.

It had not been difficult to find models – there were always people willing to help out a fellow artist at art school – and he had found some excellent models that way, including one very athletic young woman, whose muscular abdomen he had spent weeks painting in perfect detail, the long, tapering lines of her muscles stretching across canvas. But despite that he had found himself drawn to strangers on the street, people whose lives he knew very little about.

One of which had been the man who had just strode out of the gallery.

He’d seen him several times from the park where he routinely sketched, wandering in and out of Stein, sometimes with a slightly older, prematurely grey man, or a tall, dark-haired man with a slightly sour expression, or else a pair not much younger than Ori. He was strong, not as broad as Dori but perhaps taller, and very attractive – well, Ori would have had to have been blind not to notice that – and seemed to exude confidence.

One time he came out on his phone, scowling for a moment before his expression morphed into something peaceful, amused.

The sight had stayed with him long after the man had left, presumably to go to work, leaving Ori sat there, staring blankly out at the street. He had toyed with the pages of his sketchbook, where he had been doodling the small wildflowers growing around his favourite bench, and had been hit by inspiration.

Now, Ori’s hands twisted together nervously.

He really hadn’t meant any harm.

 

\--

 

Dwalin found himself at Bard’s, and when the stoic bartender began to pour him his favourite whisky he gestured for the man to leave the bottle.

Bard raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment.

That was what he appreciated about this bar – as welcoming as it might have felt, no one ever pried into his business.

He was on his way to getting stinking drunk when Balin eventually found him, settling himself down next to him in the booth he had moved to with a huff, hooking the bottle and eying it with satisfaction.

“At least you’re drowning your sorrows in something decent, brother.”

He stole Dwalin’s glass, ignoring his protests as a good big brother should, and poured himself a healthy measure. He knocked back a mouthful, smacking his lips in satisfaction, and raised his eyebrows at Dwalin.

“You do know that you deserve any and all mockery you get, don’t you?”

Dwalin nodded glumly.

“And that Thorin is not going to let this go for at least a year?”

He rested his forehead on the table as Balin knocked back the drink.

“Yes.”

Balin nodded.

“Good. Just wanted to make sure.”

 

\--

 

“You know Dwalin, its funny.”

“Is it really, Thorin?”

“You see, I might have been a model, but you are a _muse.”_

Balin sighed. He had quite liked that paperweight. There really had been no need to smash it against Thorin’s office door as the other ducked behind it, smirking.

 

\--

 

It was another miserable, early autumn day when Ori saw him again. He was wrapped up in his favourite, oversized jumper in a booth in Café Stein, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his boots kicked off and feet up next to him; his sketchbook was propped up on his knees and one of his softer-leaded pencils tucked behind an ear. It was a common sight to the waitresses there, who knew him both by name and by sight. He had been quite content and quite comfortable, and then his unintentional model strode in, close cropped hair gleaming from the sudden downpour outside, shoulders of his coat damp.

Ori had watched, out of the corner of his eye, as he had taken a seat by the windows, slightly misted against the rain and the chill, trying to catch the eye of the disinterested waitress on shift.

Ori could very easily have left things as they were – there was no way the man would know who he was, and it was doubtful that they would ever have been introduced, unless Gandalf took it upon himself to organise a meeting, though he doubted that - he was still a little annoyed that the gallery owner had approved a portrait of someone he knew going up in the exhibition, as it would have been very easy for him to mention that perhaps his friend might not have appreciated it.

He could have just ordered another hot chocolate and forgotten the entire thing, but guilt still gnawed at him a little, the man’s unimpressed expression and hasty exit still firm in his mind.

His brother hadn’t raised cowards, he reminded himself as the waitress finally came over to take the tall man’s order.

So he’d slipped his feet back into his slightly oversized military-style boots, tucked his sketchbook under his arm, and padded across the café to take the seat opposite the man.

He looked up at Ori with a frown, confusion obvious in the creases around his eyes.

“Hullo,” he began. “My name’s Ori.”

The man’s mouth opened slightly in bewilderment, but then he’d nodded.

“Dwalin,” he offered, his voice deep and a little rough, not quite the rolling smoothness that Ori had been expecting.

“I owe you an apology.”

He put his sketchbook down, settling back into the seat, running a hand through his messy hair – Dori was always on at him to get it cut, never understanding his younger brothers’ leanings towards longer, unruly hair.

Dwalin didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow at him, clearly waiting for an explanation of some kind.

“I, umm…” he was momentarily distracted, wondering exactly what to say. “I may have painted a picture of you.”

Dwalin’s face morphed into an irritated scowl, and Ori quickly continued before the man had a chance to say anything – or possibly yell at him.

“I based quite a few of my paintings off people I see around a lot in real life, the ones I didn’t use actual models for, and I guess it never really occurred to me that anyone would actually see them. It must have been a bit of a shock.”

He offered a tentative smile up at the unimpressed man in front of him, rolling a pencil between his fingers absentmindedly, a nervous habit picked up from Nori, whose hands could never stop moving.

“I do want to apologise though, I probably shouldn’t have asked your permission first, of course, but then I never really thought about it – it isn’t often that you end up seeing your own face in the Greyhame, I know.”

Then something surprising happened – Ori had been expecting a verbal lashing, or perhaps just a derisive snort (certainly the man didn’t seem like the most vocal of individuals), but instead a strange flicker seemed to cross his expression, and Dwalin folded his arms, letting out a sigh.

“Happens more often than you’d think, actually.”

Ori wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. It sounded like the beginning of a story that he rather wanted to learn.

“Oh, umm… well, either way, I really probably should just stick to actual models in the future. But also thanks, for inspiring the painting, I mean.”

Oh lord, he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but luckily Dwalin was starting to look a little less angry now.

“I mean, urgh, I just feel pretty awful about it, I saw when you left the opening and you really didn’t look pleased – ” 

_Wonderful, Ori, now you’re coming across like some creepy stalker following him around and watching his reactions_

_“_ – I mean not that I was watching you or anything it’s just I was there as well – ”

_Well of course you were there; it was your damn opening._

He closed his eyes, trying desperately to stop himself talking.

“What I’m trying to say, is sorry.”

Dwalin was staring at him. Ori fiddled with the sleeves of his jumper, pushing them back up over his elbows again, wondering what response that particularly unnecessary speech would illicit. In the end Dwalin simply grunted, though that could have been to him or to the waitress who brought his coffee, giving Ori an odd look as she did so.

“Just… don’t worry about it, lad.”

Ori’s shoulders sagged in relief, and he offered a tentative smile at the large man, which was not readily reciprocated. At least he didn’t look like he was about to throw him out of the window any more though, so Ori decided to take it as a win.

He noticed Dwalin’s eyes, flickering down to his forearm, and Ori fought the urge to roll his sleeve down again.

“That’s… did it hurt?”

Ori’s eyes widened, and he shook his head as his fingertips traced briefly along the lines of the tattoo that ran the entire length of the inside of his forearm, from wrist to inner-elbow, a quick reflex. He’d been doing that ever since he’d had it done, three years ago, when it was still raised. Even now he could still feel the odd line of it here and there, very faintly. It was a soothing touch that he found himself repeating whenever he was feeling a little uncomfortable.

“Not really. I mean, a bit, on the ends, but no way near as bad as some of my others.”

Dwalin looked at him appraisingly, surprised.

Ori didn’t blame him.

He was well aware that people were surprised at the tattoos, but there was little he could do to change that – he certainly wasn’t going to change the way he dressed to make up for people’s preconceptions. He _liked_ his skinny jeans and oversized jumpers, thank you very much.

“It’s… it’s something.”

It wouldn’t have sounded like a compliment but for the slightly impressed tone to his voice, almost indistinguishable but there none the less. Ori found himself smiling, and he tilted his arm around to show the whole of it.

“Thanks. You have any?”

It had been designed to look like watercolour ink, the colours bleeding and fading around the edges of the colourful, abstract pattern. Odd trails here and there _might_ have been stems, wider blossoms of ink _could_ have been petals – certainly flowers were what most people guessed it to be depicting, though it wasn’t actually supposed to be of anything in particular.

Dwalin shook his head.

“No,” he replied, frowning. “Thought about it, but…” he trailed off shrugged, and Ori nodded understandingly.

“Did you…” Dwalin waved awkwardly at his arm. “It is one of yours?”

Ori smiled, glancing down at it and flexing his fingers around the pencil he was still idly playing with. He’d painted the original in a particularly good mood, the day he’d found out about his art school scholarship, and afterwards had stood staring at it for some time.

He’d never before, or since, painted anything that had quite so successfully conveyed his joy and _hope,_ and so it had been awarded pride of place on his arm, there to remind him any time he fretted about his future or was feeling down of that moment of pride and possibility.

“Yeah,” he answered. “All of mine are. I do some design and commission work on the side, while I study. Did my last big project on tattoo work, actually.”

He flipped open his stetchbook, to a page where he had been designing some delicate white-ink work, turning it so Dwalin could see.

“I’ve had quite a few commissions from other students, actually,” he admitted, watching the way that Dwalin drew his lower lip gently between his teeth as he appraised the drawings. It was an entirely unaffected movement: Ori doubted if Dwalin even realised he was doing it. It made him itch to draw, but he suspected it might throw the other man off if Ori suddenly started sketching him.

“I think that a lot of artists like the idea of their tattoos being entirely original to them.”

Dwalin quirked an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t they just draw their own?”

“No one is as critical of their own work as an artist,” Ori quipped back with a grin. “But there is also a huge number of artists in the world, and not all of their work can be translated into attractive tattoos.”

He pulled his sketchbook back when it looked like Dwalin was finished, smiling gently, though inside he was telling himself off for slipping so quickly into presentation-talk.

“So, anyway. Can I take you out for dinner, to make up for painting you?”

Dwalin stared at him.

“What?”

Ori shrugged, but there was a faint blush at the base of his throat, as if his confidence came at the expense of some well-hidden embarrassment.

“If you want to. I still feel guilty.”

Dwalin had been thrown when the young man had taken a seat opposite him, and had warred with himself as the artist had explained exactly who he was. On the one hand, he probably should be annoyed with him, but he remembered quite clearly how embarrassed Bilbo had been when he had ended up in a similar situation (although Thorin’s photograph, he hastened to remind himself, had actually been an accident, unlike his portrait – as earnest as Ori seemed, there was no way Dwalin would have believed him if he had tried to convince Dwalin that he had somehow _accidentally_ painted a four foot watercolour portrait).

Ten years ago, Dwalin probably would have accepted the offer without any thought or concern. Dwalin had always had a strange sort of fascination with tattoos, and Ori’s earnestly handsome features were only thrown into sharper relief with a smile that was close to _devastating._ The brief mention of other tattoos had set his mind wandering, a train of thought that he had quickly had to shut down.

Because he was damn _young._

Sometimes people looked a lot older or younger than they were, of course, and though Ori was certainly older than Fili, Dwalin would be damned if he was in his thirties yet.

But then, he reminded himself, he was probably getting quite ahead of himself. Ori hadn’t made any indication that that was his intention, or that he was interested in Dwalin in any way. He’d been polite, and genuine, but hadn’t made any kind of overture that could lead him to assume anything.

Opposite him, Ori was beginning to look a little uncomfortable at his silence.

He opened his mouth, as if to tell Dwalin not to worry about it, or perhaps to make his apologies once more and leave, but he managed to get there first.

He was interesting, and friendly, and honestly was trying to make amends.

It wasn’t a date.

“Okay,” Dwalin found himself replying.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t a date, Ori reminded himself as he topped up both of their wine glasses; it was just an apology dinner. At an intimate, romantic restaurant. With an attractive man. And wine.

Definitely not a date.

He smiled across at Dwalin, and the corner of the taller man’s mouth twitched upwards in response, leaning in a little closer to answer Ori’s previous question about his work. The flicker of the candlelight lit the thin veins of gold that ran through the dark grey of Dwalin’s eyes, almost molten in their shine, making his eyes into a strange and precious thing that Ori couldn’t help but stare at, watch. He might have felt more self-conscious about that, but they had been tucked away at a table in the back of the small place that he’d chosen, so there were not too many people overlooking them, which he was growing more thankful of as the evening passed and he found himself staring more and more at Dwalin, watching the way his eyes flickered from one thing to another, the way his hands shifted from his thighs to the table, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them.

He’d chosen the place primarily for how good its chicken chasseur was: Ori had been surprised and perhaps a little disappointed when Dwalin had admitted, with a slight frown as if he was anticipating hearing a long lecture or surprised response, that he was vegetarian. Whilst it was true that he had been hoping for Dwalin to try it (perhaps with Ori feeding him a forkful, leaning over the table towards him), he was hardly going to pass judgement on him for his choices. But Dwalin’s tense shoulders made him suspect that he’d been at the receiving end of jibes before.

He didn’t particularly want to tease him for it. In fact, he actually thought it had been rather charming. Ori definitely hadn’t blushed at the way Dwalin shot him a small, warm smile when he’d just nodded, without saying anything else.

But it definitely wasn’t a date.

Was it?

He hadn’t told his brothers – of course – and the longer then evening wore on the more glad he was that that wasn’t the case: there was something about the way that Dwalin continued to lean in, close enough that his broad shoulders blocked out anything that Ori might have seen behind him (not that there really was anything else that might have caught his attention), that made him wonder. Dwalin’s eyes kept flickering to the tattoo visible on his arm, the sleeves of his jumper rolled up, something heated in his gaze that suggested that perhaps it wasn’t just a dinner, perhaps there was something more in it. And if that was the case, he was very glad that he hadn’t mentioned anything to his brothers, because they had a mean streak when they were feeling protective, and they had been known to trail him to dates before.

Admittedly that had only been once, when he was sixteen, and Nori had been very sorry about it afterwards; but once burnt, twice shy.  

He had to admit, he quite wanted it to be a date.

There was something about the reserved half-smiles that Dwalin would occasionally shoot him, the strong press of his hands against the table, that set something bright burning inside him. He found himself doing most of the talking, and he was growing increasingly concerned that he might just have started rambling on a couple of occasions, distracted by the bright gleam of Dwalin’s eyes.

He’d trailed off after a while, turning his attention to his food and trying not to wonder whether or not he’d made up the ghost of a brush of Dwalin’s knee against his own, only for the moment of quiet to be unexpectedly broken.

“How old are you?” asked Dwalin abruptly, before looking up at the roof, pursing his mouth a little as if he were trying to fight embarrassment at asking so forwardly.

“I’m twenty seven,” Ori replied with a smile. “Though my brother says I look younger than that.”

Dwalin nodded, his gaze returning to the table. He looked at Ori for a long moment, before pulling his upper lip briefly between his teeth as he smiled – an action which Ori found himself watching with perhaps a little too much interest.

“Aye,” he replied. “Perhaps.”

Ori wasn’t entirely sure what that meant – was it that Dwalin had thought him a lot younger, or was he disagreeing? It would have perhaps been a little awkward to question him further on it, in case it came across as if he were hunting for compliments, so he let it be.

Dwalin continued to watch him, as if waiting for something, and Ori realised with a visible flush that perhaps he should have asked how old Dwalin was, in turn – but the thought hadn’t occurred to him, and the moment passed before he could rectify it, slipping back into safer topics of conversation (though Ori was very pleased to note that at no point did they end up discussing the weather).

Dwalin reached for the bill when it was placed in front of them, but Ori got their first, shaking his head.

“Let me, this was supposed to be me apologising, remember?”

Dwalin looked uncertain for a moment, as if he was warring with himself, but had let him pay (though Ori rather suspected that he would have happily taken the bill without resentment or concern, which was actually quite nice). He wasn’t entirely sure what to do when they stood to leave: he wondered if he would have the nerve to reach up to press a kiss to the tall man’s cheek before they left.

The night had set in outside the warmth of the restaurant, and the bright headlights of the passing cars threw the occasional slant of light across them as the stood, side by side, neither of them entirely sure what they should be doing. How do you end a date? Particularly if neither one of you were sure that it was actually a date to begin with?

“Which way are you going?” Dwalin asked, looking up at the sky for a moment.

Ori nodded to the left.

“My studio is just off Kings Road, down that way.”

Dwalin nodded. “Next to the underground station?”

Ori smiled, and hummed his agreement.

“I’ll walk with you.”

Ori opened his mouth to protest, but Dwalin was already turning down the street, and he was forced to follow or else risk being left behind. He quirked a smile up at the taller man, who just kept his eyes fixed ahead of him.

Dwalin was… walking him home.

That was date material, wasn’t it?

Their hands brushed, just once, and Ori felt a spike of heat at the touch.

Should he ask him if he wanted a coffee, or did people only do that in films?

Was he actually walking him home, or just to the Underground station? It occurred to him all of a sudden that they might actually _have_ to walk in the same direction, and that this might not have anything to do with Dwalin wanting to spend more time with him.

There was a rumble of thunder from somewhere close by, though Ori had not seen any lightening. The wind picked up around them, and Ori found himself wishing that he’d brought something warmer than his light cashmere jumper. Curse the changeable British weather, he thought to himself, wondering if he could get away with wrapping his arms around himself without looking too dishevelled. Curse the unpredictable clouds: there had only been a few when he had left his studio earlier, none of them looking too ominous. He could have come and gone from his home, which was closer to the restaurant and would be much warmer on return, but that would have involved explaining what he was doing to Dori.

Though, he thought as he felt a drop of rain on his forehead, at least Dori would have made him wear a coat.

They were nearly there, still walking in slightly awkward silence, Ori still trying to second-guess Dwalin’s motives, when the heavens opened and the rain came pouring down. It wasn’t a brief shower, nor a light patter, but a full on deluge that began to soak them almost as soon as it had started, heavy drops ricocheting off the pavement audibly; Ori grabbed hold of Dwalin’s wrist and _pulled_.

It was a brief sprint to his studio and up the fire-escape to the door; Dwalin didn’t protest as he was dragged down streets and up steps, jogging to keep up. The warmth of Dwalin’s wrist felt like a brand against his hands, one which he eventually had to drop as he struggled the key from his pocket and into the lock, Dwalin behind him, tangible heat in the cool air. Cold rainwater was running down his neck, and soaking into his hair, plastering it against his head; he fought a shiver as he felt one drop bead down the length of his spine.

He finally got the door open and pushed through into the narrow pseudo-hallway made in the one room studio out of bookshelves, the space barely wide enough for two; it had been a minor change in the room to afford some privacy: Ori found it a little strange to sleep being able to see the front door. The amount of space had always been plenty for one, but now he could feel the physical presence of Dwalin behind him.

He half span on his heel as the door clicked shut behind them both.

“Hey.”

There was a flush rising on his cheeks, burning against the chill of his skin.

Dwalin was soaked, rainwater beading on his face, the shoulders of his shirt entirely discoloured with the water, clinging now to the strong lines of his shoulder, of his muscles.

“Hey,” came the reply, deep and a little hoarse.

Ori wasn’t entirely sure that a voice should give him a reaction like that.

He wondered for a moment what he looked like, soaked and slightly out of breath, but then Dwalin’s gaze raked up his body in one slow, thorough stare; he took in the line of his collarbones, the way his soaked jumper clung to his body, his eyes rising to meet Ori’s own.

His breath caught in his throat.

There was no way to deny the heat in that stare.

They would later not be able to agree who moved first, whether it was Ori that pressed himself along the length of Dwalin’s body or whether it was the taller man that pulled Ori to him, wrapping his arms around him; Ori kissed him hard, his hands finding the solid muscle of his back, pulling him backwards, past the bookshelves, into the studio proper. They hit the corner of one of many tables scattered around the room, sending tubes of paint across the floor; Dwalin licked his way into Ori’s mouth, his hands moving to the top of his thighs, lifting him slightly, against his body. Ori’s nails dug in at the base of his neck as he tried to lift himself, to get physically closer, but the action caused him to stumble; Dwalin lifted him a little more, and Ori wrapped himself around his hips, his ankles locking.

Dwalin made a deep, throaty noise, his fingers digging tighter into Ori’s thighs, stumbling himself now as he tried to get the pair of them to the bed in the corner, the carefully pressed sheets in stark contrast to the messy trestle tables and easels that were scattered around the rest of the space.

It might have been closer to dropping than lowering when he eventually managed to get Ori onto the bed, but as the younger man immediately reached to pull him back down on top of him he didn’t think that he was too offended.  

Ori’s hands were everywhere, underneath Dwalin’s shirt, running over the line of his belt, but he found himself gentling his own touch as his hands ran down the slender curve of his upper chest. There was something oddly delicate about the slightness of his chest compared to the breadth of his shoulders; as Ori struggled away to pull his jumper and shirt off in one motion, he saw for the first time the almost triangular shape of his torso. He was built with broad shoulders but a slender body, tapering down to a narrow waist.

He followed the lines of his tattoos, leaning down to trace the one across his ribcage with his tongue.

Ori _shivered_ underneath him, and he pulled back for a moment.

But there was no hesitation in Ori’s expression, no concern in the lax line of his jaw as he made a soft, breathy noise, a vein in the long line of his neck jumping. Dwalin pressed his open mouth over it, feeling the taught line of a tendon under his tongue as he licked over it, Ori’s hips jumping at the feeling, rubbing against his own unrelentingly.

Ori opened his eyes as he felt Dwalin move again, shifting his weight back onto his knees, looming over him; he was panting slightly, and Ori grinned as the taller man leant back to pull off his shirt.

“So it was a date?” he asked. He’d aimed for teasing, but he came across as breathless instead. He couldn’t really bring himself to regret it.

Dwalin laughed, and nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good,” replied Ori as Dwalin buried his face in the curve of his shoulder, sucking a dark bruise on his skin. Ori’s nails ran faint trails down his back as he arched up from the bed, pressing closer. “Oh, _good.”_

 


End file.
